


Never Too Young To Start Again

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 04:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: Young Aragorn gets himself into a scrape and makes a new friend, who sets his feet on a different path.





	Never Too Young To Start Again

**Author's Note:**

> (The people, places and main events all belong to JRR Tolkien. I'm only playing in his world.)

“Come on, you maggots! Leave it. It'll die soon enough and the sun's coming up.”

“Can't we take it with us?”

“It's not worth the trouble … all skin and bone. There's not a decent mouthful on it.”

“It could make a stew if we boiled it long enough.”

“Then you carry it. But if you gets caught out in the daylight yer on yer own.”

“Leave it, Grob. There's plenty of meat in the tunnels.”

'It' let out a shaky breath as iron bound feet thundered off into the pre-dawn mist. Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, waited until they were no more than a distant rumble in the earth before trying to lever himself up on trembling arms. His first attempt ended in a cry of pain and dropped him straight back to the stony ground. For his next one, he used only his left arm and managed to sit up, with a tight groan. Gritting his teeth, he raised his right arm to examine the injury in his bicep. One look at the gaping edges of a ragged wound had him rolling to the side, to empty his stomach on the trampled grass. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand Aragorn decided to postpone another bout of nausea, by taking the time to look about him. The body of a large orc had his heart thumping, until he realised that its leather-clad chest was not moving. When he had calmed sufficiently, memory presented a blow-by-blow account of the encounter with his attackers. He had been doing well enough, when dealing with only two, then another five had jumped into the fray. Aragorn congratulated himself on at least managing to dispatch one, before being overwhelmed.

The contents of his small pack were scattered all about him. It was fortunate that the tiny surgical kit had been ignored by his assailants, who were interested only in food or weapons. Luck was on his side, it seemed, although he would have considered himself luckier, had he not encountered the orcs at all. At least their leader had been correct about the sunrise and the sky began to lighten, revealing Aragorn's untouched water skin, a mercy which saved him having to seek out a stream to cleanse his injuries. Already, he could feel a buzzing in his head, which hinted at a loss of blood at the least, and poison at the worst. He wondered sometimes, whether orcs deliberately laced their blades with poison, or whether they were just so filthy that the weapons bred their own.

Soft cloths had also been ignored and he wet one before using it to swab his injuries. Most were shallow but the one on his upper arm was more troublesome. Almost fainting, he had to rest for several minutes before hand and eye were steady enough to thread a needle. Elrond insisted that he learn to tie a stitch with either hand, but Aragorn had not the dexterity of an elf, and favoured his right. Unfortunately, that was the injured arm, so he offered up a prayer to the Valar as he took the needle in his left hand and tried to draw together the edges of the ragged cut. The result was not pretty and he had to stop once to discharge the remaining contents of his stomach.

Half an hour later Aragorn had scavenged what possessions he could, including Narsil, who's broken remains the orcs had ignored, and stood, swaying upon unsteady feet. Now he paused, undecided. To the east lay Mirkwood. Whilst he was certain of a welcome from Legolas, he was less certain of Thranduil. Were his son was not at home, Thranduil was as likely to thrust Aragorn into the care of a gaoler as a healer, for mortals were tolerated at best, within the halls of the woodland king. To the south lay the lands of Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel. Even were he not reluctant to sojourn there, the ancient elven land of Lorien was guarded by more than bow and sword. If its rulers did not wish to grant entry, no entry would be found. 

To his west lay the Misty Mountains. There he had been raised, within the sheltered valley of Imladris. At one time he would not have hesitated, but all that had changed five years ago. Now, Aragorn considered Rivendel closed to him and, although he knew of the lands of Rohan and Gondor, he had not yet ventured so far. Until his recent acquaintance with Legolas, Aragorn had explored only a little of the lands east of the Misty Mountains, and travelled west only as far as the borders of the Shire. He recalled that Bree, at least, had a decent inn and a healer. Drawing his cloak about him, Aragorn therefore turned west. He was already in the foothills, and if the weather held he could make it across the mountains in only a few days. 

He determinedly ignored the small voice in his head, warning him that he was being overly optimistic in the assessment of his strength.

By evening of the first day Aragorn knew that he was in trouble. The mild buzzing in his ears had grown, along with a headache, and the beginnings of a fever. When he stopped for the night, in the lee of an outcrop of granite, he made time before sleeping to strip a long branch that he had scavenged lower down the mountain slopes. He would probably need it in the morning, for he had already stumbled several times. The following day he awoke to find the world behaving in strange ways, revolving and tripping him up, turning yellow and then grey, hot and then cold. Were it not for the support of his new staff, Aragorn would have fallen many times. As he climbed higher the world grew darker and at first he thought it another trick of his eyes, until he felt the first raindrops. Combined with a fever and pain from his wounds, the rain finally succeeded in overwhelming his strong constitution, and by midday he was huddled beneath an overhang, barely aware of anything beyond his fever driven nightmares. Later, he would have no memory of the resumption of his journey.

-0-

The trail was poorly maintained ... a discouragement to all but the most determined. A recent deluge had battered its surface to a muddy slick, a danger to the life and limb of any traveler, of which there were few. That two should encounter each other, therefore, hinted at more than chance. 

From his sparse shelter beneath a wind blasted birch tree, Gandalf blew smoke rings, as he cast an assessing eye over the tall figure who was staggering closer, clearly in difficulty, even with the aid of a roughly trimmed staff. The man bore all the height and dark colouring that marked out descendants of the men of Numenor. A battered and empty scabbard flapped at his side, and upon broad shoulders a bow and empty quiver shared space with an equally battered pack. Indeed, everything about the traveler was battered, which looked incongruous on one so young. Perhaps this was one of the Rangers of the north, although it was not usual for them to travel alone, especially when apparently barely out of their twenties.

The man dragged his unfocused grey gaze from the ground before him, frowning at Gandalf for a moment. Then a misstep tangled the empty scabbard between long legs, pitching him forward to lie, unmoving, in the mire. Gandalf sighed. The Valar seemed to take a perverse delight in dropping trouble at his feet, but rarely were they so literal about it. The Grey Pilgrim strode forward to investigate, dropping to his knees in the mud, to roll the figure. A thick layer of grime made it difficult to see anything. Clearly, this was not the first time body and ground had made intimate acquaintance. What were also clear were the bloodied rents in dark clothing, makeshift bandages, and fever heat beneath the rescuer's assessing fingers. 

Gandalf grunted as he hoisted the muddy figure over his shoulder. The hroa of an old man was his by choice, and belied his power and strength, but the youngster was tall and very solidly built, for all his lack of girth. Gathering up his staff, Gandalf hoped that, having arranged for the placing of this man in his care, the Valar would also arrange for him to find a decent patch of dry ground, not too far distant.

-0-

Warmth against his left side. That was Aragorn's first awareness, swiftly followed by a succession of disjointed memories. The world wavering in and out of focus. Lifting eyes from his boots to frown at a straggly tree, which seemed to be blowing smoke rings. Pitching forward again. His forehead making contact with probably the only hard patch of trail surface for miles. Darkness.

He lay still, trying to establish his current situation without opening his eyes. A fire could mean either help, or that he was to be the next course on an orc's menu. Senses listed the tang of wood-smoke and crackle of a small fire, the confining warmth of a blanket or cloak, hard ground beneath his back, and the lingering scent of pipeweed, combined with that of cooked meat. His wounds no longer burned and the fever had abated, although he could still feel it smouldering, deep within his abused flesh. He took it as a good sign that the scent of food, was making him feel hungry. It also implied that he was not about to be broiled for dinner. 

"You need not dissemble. I intend you no harm and, if you open your eyes, I will help you to sit up. Then you can try some of the coney stew." The voice was burred with age and yet strong, holding a hint of mild amusement. 

Aragorn followed instruction, blinking at the brilliance of a campfire against the black night sky. Slowly, the scene drew into focus. He was lying upon his back beneath the combined canopy of a pair of birch trees, although there were few leaves left this late in the year, and stars peeped shyly from between the branches. Strong arms suddenly slipped beneath his shoulders, levering him to a sitting position and supporting, as Aragorn fought to stay upright. For several breaths the world spiraled about him, but finally steadied, just in time to forestall his dry heaving. He knew it would be dry heaving, because it had been some time since he last consumed anything other than water. The orcs had stolen what food they had not trampled into the earth.

Glancing aside, he stared into a bearded and deeply seamed face, beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed and extravagantly pointed hat. The mouth was almost hidden amid a long and tangled grey beard, but when it drew into a smile a network of wrinkles about keen grey eyes showed that laughter was no stranger to his features. Aragorn cleared his throat, uncertain what his voice would sound like after so many days alone, and relieved when it appeared to hold at least a close approximation of its usual timbre. "Thank you for your aid, Master...?"

The elderly gentleman straightened, leaving Aragorn to find his balance alone. His voice now carried the gravitas of one who expected to be recognised. "I am Gandalf the Grey." He raised bushy eyebrows, "And you are...?"

Aragorn released a hand from the confining blanket. Now he laid it upon his heart, bowing his head, as his elven foster father had taught him. "One of the five wizards. I am honoured, sir. My name is Aragorn."

Those grey eyes narrowed and Aragorn had the uncomfortable feeling that he used to have sometimes with his foster father, that he was being examined to the very core of his being. "Arathorn's son. I met your father a few times. You favour him in looks, which is no mean feat in one so young, for he was ever stern of countenance. I believe you and I met once, in your youth, although you bore a different name then. You seem to have fallen upon hard times and made a few enemies, young chieftain." 

Much to Aragorn's relief, Gandalf poured some hot stew into a bowl and handed it over, with a chunk of dry, but still edible, bread. Recalling Elrond's injunctions about eating too much after a fast, Aragorn sopped the bread in some broth first, chewing slowly as he tried to recall encountering this strange personage. Finally, he had to confess, "I'm afraid I don't remember our meeting.”

Gandalf pursed his lips, appearing a little offended. “I traveled in the company of several dwarves and a hobbit.”

Enlightenment drew a gasp. “I remember now. You came to the library.”

“I did, indeed. Your cat showed me the way. A very polite lady. I must say that I am disappointed that our introduction was so un-memorable to you.”

“I apologise, although, as I recall, we did not exchange more than a few words.”

Gandalf cleared his throat. “Yes, well. How came you to be traveling alone with such injuries? I hope your companions are not dead.”

“I was scouting alone, among the eastern foothills, when I was set upon by a party of orcs."

"I recognised their handywork." Gandalf helped himself to a portion of the thin stew. "Some of your wounds still show signs of their poisons, although I note that you have at least attempted to clean and stitch them. You were obviously trained well, and I only took the liberty of re-dressing them for you."

Aragorn allowed himself a rueful smile. "For that I thank you. Lord Elrond taught me to tend battle wounds, although I suspect that he would be unimpressed with my needlework upon this occasion." He flexed his right arm, wincing at the pull of poorly placed stitches, although the soreness that had plagued him was at least a little diminished.

Gandalf gave a warm chuckle. "I doubt Elrond would be impressed with anyone's surgical skill, but I think even he would concede that stitching a wound on your right bicep, when you are naturally right handed, is no mean feat."

"How long have I been in your care? I remember nothing beyond walking the road and then falling."

"You fell more than once I think. Your clothes suggest several arguments with the earth, all of which you appear to have lost. Your last fall was early this afternoon, and it is now almost midnight. You would be wise to rest until morning."

"Midnight?" Aragorn squinted at the heavens once more. By the location of the sword belt of menelmacar it was, indeed, close the midnight. Swallowing the last of the bread, and washing it down with a final mouthful of broth, he stood, intending to wash out his bowl and offer his goodbye's. A surprisingly strong arm came about his waist as he almost toppled into the fire.

"Young people. They never listen to their elders." Now Aragorn was forced down so firmly that he landed on his rump with a squawk of surprise. "We shall not be moving on until daylight, young sir. So you may as well make yourself comfortable."

Aragorn bridled at his treatment. "Whilst I appreciate your care, I have been looking after myself for several years now."

Gandalf tapped a new bandage about Aragorn's brow, drawing a hiss from the young man. The wizard's voice carried more gentle amusement, than sarcasm, as he said, "And you have obviously been doing so well."

Aragorn blew out a deep breath. "It was a large party of orcs."

Gandalf settled himself comfortably again, adding more branches to the small fire. "Indeed? And where do you travel now, in such haste?"

"I was making my way to Bree."

"On the other side of the mountains? You will never make it. Even after my tender ministrations you cannot walk so far. You need rest and proper care."

"Bree is the closest town from here."

"If, as you say, you were injured in the eastern foothills, you have already travelled far. Surely Lord Elrond will aid you, of all people. He told me you were as a son to him."

“I am no longer certain of my welcome there.”

Gandalf tugged his pipe from the forked tip of his staff, and a pouch from some pocket deep within his tattered and muddy robes. "I heard of your encounter with the lady Arwen. Elrond said you were quite taken with his daughter."

Aragorn nodded, mesmerised as he watched Gandalf pack golden weed into the small bowl of his pipe. "She is far above me, and lord Elrond has forbidden me to court her, unless I become king."

"And do you intend to become king?" the wizard asked as he seemed to kindle his pipe from thin air. 

"Do I look like a monarch in waiting?" Aragorn asked on a sigh, as he made an ineffectual attempt to brush dried mud from his breeches.

"I confess, I have never seen one, so I cannot express an opinion upon the matter. However, it does seem to me that walking the land and developing an understanding of its many peoples, is a very good place to begin." Gandalf tilted back his head to blow a fragrant cloud of smoke at the stars. 

"I have acquired the skill of walking, at least. As for the understanding of people ... that is proving more difficult. So far, most of the ones I encountered have precluded any understanding, beyond their desire to kill me. Upon first acquaintance, even Legolas' troupe fired warning arrows."

"You have met Thranduil's son? Excellent. I agree that Thranduil is a little, shall we say, territorial? But, who else have you met?"

Aragorn waved about them, where all was cloaked in darkness. "People are few and far between in these lands, nowadays. I have seen Dale, but could not gain admittance to Erebor. Beyond that my wanderings have taken me to isolated farming communities mainly."

"What of your own people? Surely they eagerly await the return of their chieftain."

Aragorn cleared his throat, uncomfortably. "They were willing to take me in, but I knew nothing of their customs, and they were long used to living without their chieftain. I suppose I could have stayed, and would probably have found my place among them, given time, but I am no elf or istari. My years in Middle earth are limited."

Gandalf chuckled. "I see. You mean that you are young and have not the time to waste on such mundane things as getting to know people, when there are dragons to be slain." Aragorn was permitted no time to express offence as his elder continued. "Yet you have wasted years wandering aimlessly. You are of the people of Numenor, and may expect a life at least twice that of an ordinary man. You have time enough, I think."

Pulling the blanket more securely about his shoulders, Aragorn stirred the fire with a stray stick as he muttered sullenly, "I search for purpose."

"Then may I suggest that you seek purpose in more salubrious surroundings? Imladris is much closer than Bree and, frankly, better appointed."

Aragorn could not hold back a scowl. "I have already told you that I am uncertain of my welcome. I left there in some haste."

Gandalf tapped the dottle from his pipe, testing the draw before slipping it back into the top of his staff. "As I understand it, that haste was not of Lord Elrond's insistence."

Weakness prevented Aragorn from withholding a peevish tone. "There seemed little point in my remaining in the presence of she who I cannot hope to win. Why cause myself more pain?"

"There speaks youth, indeed." Gandalf shook his head. "But that will not be an issue at present, for the Lady Arwen resides once more in Lorien, with her grandparents. I travel to Imladris myself, to consult your foster father upon another matter. Will you not accept both my aid and his? I have some healing skill, but I am no match for his gentle hand."

Too weary to continue the argument, Aragorn capitulated upon a sigh. "Very well, master wizard."

They set out at dawn but, what relief from his injuries Aragorn had gained overnight, began to fade by midday. Soon he was leaning heavily upon Gandalf's surprisingly strong arm, accepting his help to negotiate the steep trail. By mid afternoon the pain had returned in full force and with it, a fever, resulting in periods of profuse sweating, which alternated with shivering, bone-deep chills. Unsure how often his helper passed this way, Aragorn tried to concentrate, fearful that they would miss the veiled turning. It was almost as they drew level with it that his legs folded. He would have fallen heavily had not Gandalf taken all his weight and eased him down, to sit upon a large rock.

Hunkering down before him, the old man looked into Aragorn's pale face with a good deal of concern. "It is not much further now. Once across the border Elrond will send folk to aid us. Can you manage just a few steps more?"

Aragorn's reserve of strength was low, but he used that which he could muster. "I am still not sure that I will be welcome there."

Gandalf's bushy brows drew together. "Nonsense. Elrond would not turn away any in need. And well you know that, if you would but look past your own pride."

The world began to rotate about him once more, and Aragorn swallowed back rising bile. "Pride?"

"Yes. Pride. You ran off, tail between your legs, and now you cannot bear to admit that you may be wrong in the assertion that Elrond abhors you. Valar spare me from the self-absorption of youth."

A wave of heat, that had nothing to do with his wounds, washed through Aragorn's body, followed by a sweep of weakness that had everything to do with them. The world gyrated again. 

"Come along." Gandalf's gruff voice seemed to echo down a very long tunnel, and Aragorn was at first inclined to ignore it. "Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, get up." This time the words were accompanied by a compulsion that had Aragorn pushing himself upright. "That's better. I am an old man and would appreciate not having to carry you over my shoulder again, certainly not for the breadth of the valley."

The words made little sense to Aragorn's now addled wits, and he had not the strength to spare for their consideration. It took all of his energy to maintain his balance as he was half walked, half dragged down the trail. Thus they continued for what seemed to him a lifetime, each step more difficult than the last. Just as his strength finally gave out Aragorn was swept into strong arms like a babe, and enfolded in a comforting scent from childhood memory. “I have you, tithe pen.”

Once more, Aragorn drifted up from darkness. Something familiar laid peace upon him, and for a while he was content to simply rest upon the cusp of full awakening. From a distance came the sound of rushing water, the rumble of a hundred waterfalls, and sweet birdsong. Warm sunlight caressed his face and he rested upon a yielding surface, with soft pillows beneath his head. Air tasted clean and wholesome, laden with the sharp tang of evergreens and something else. There it was again; that teasing scent that awakened memory, and it was that, accompanied by the soft whistle of silk garments, that opened his eyes at last.

Above was a ceiling of pale wood, its ribs elaborately carved with leaves and flowers. Rolling his head upon the pillow revealed long, thinly curtained windows, fine furniture and thick rugs. Finally, a dark outline leaned in, coalescing into the once familiar figure of Elrond of Rivendell. "Good day, Estel."

Aragorn tried to lever himself upright and was enfolded in the familiar scent of sandalwood, as his foster father re-arranged pillows at his back. "Good day, Lord Elrond."

Elrond drew his chair closer, and settled long silk-lined robes about him as he sat once more. "Lord Elrond, is it? You used to call me Adar. No matter. It is good to see you, although I would have preferred a less dramatic return."

Aragorn searched his foster father's face and tone for any sign of anger and, having found none, settled back among the down-filled cushions. "I am sorry to impose upon you." He noted, for the first time, the length of shadows on the floor and frowned. "How long have I been here?"

A twinkle of amusement touched Elrond's clear grey gaze. "Gandalf dragged you into my porch yesterday. You have slept the clock around and incidentally, you are not, nor have you ever been, an imposition. How do you feel now?"

Testing his arm, Aragorn found no sign of pain, only the gentle tug of stitches, additionally, his mind was no longer clouded with fever, although he felt as though the slightest breeze would blow him away. Even so, despite his foster father's assurance, it would not do to outstay his welcome. "I feel much better, thank you. With a little food I am sure I can be on my way."

Elrond raised on elegantly winged brow. "Do you tire of my company already? If you do not wish a recurrence of your fever I suggest you rest here for at least a week. That will also allow me to remove your dreadful needlework before you depart."

Now Aragorn could not resist a rueful smile. "I knew you would have something to say about those stitches. But I am right-handed, after all."

"Oh, it was not the quality of your needlework that disappointed me, but rather that you would have avoided a fever, had you taken time to cleanse the wound first. Could you find no athelas? I had to drain the injury and re-set some of the stitches." Now concern clouded Elrond's smooth features. "Had Gandalf not intervened, you could have lost that arm, or died of blood poisoning. And he tells me you originally intended to avoid Rivendell, and stagger all the way to Bree."

Five years fending for himself as an adult seemed to melt away, and Aragorn was a young boy once more, standing in his foster father's study. "I was unsure of my welcome."

Lord Elrond of Rivendell would never do anything so common as roll his eyes, but his tone conveyed the action perfectly. "Why ever would you think that?"

"Arwen."

"My daughter resides once more with her grandparents. Even did she not, you will always be welcome here, Estel."

The repeat of his childhood name brought a lump to his throat, and Aragorn had to swallow before replying, "Thank you, Adar."

Elrond sighed, shaking his head. "We parted in love, Estel, at least for my part. I will not have my daughter give away her immortality lightly, but that does not mean that I would not see you crowned king. Nor should you infer that I will not gladly assist you upon your path, even should fate join it with hers."

There was a soft knock at the door and a tall and slender elf entered, a covered tray in her hands. She smiled broadly. "Hello Estel. I have brought you some food. Stitches and medicine are all very well, but a body needs food to repair itself."

Aragorn's eyes brightened as she placed the tray across his lap and lifted away the cover. "Hello Faerwen. It is good to see you again. How is Erestor?"

The lady shook out a napkin, laying it over his chest to protect the fine linen nightshirt he wore. "My husband is as difficult as ever, and still the love of my life." She turned her smile upon Elrond. "The twins are pacing the halls, awaiting news of their little brother."

When Aragorn opened his mouth to offer admittance Elrond interjected. "They can visit tomorrow. For now you may tell them that their brother is awake, and finally in his right mind."

Faerwen laughed. "I shall." With those words she slipped from the room.

"You had best start eating, before that food cools," Elrond pointed out as he settled himself more comfortably. "Now, tell me of your journeys since you left us."

The next morning Aragorn was strong enough to take a stroll. High walls ensured that roses still bloomed, even this late in the year, within one sheltered garden. Whilst there was no lock upon the gate, all knew that this was a space set aside for family and close friends, and Aragorn came here often in his youth. Now, as then, he made for a small arbour, set against the southern wall and curtained by trailing ivy. He did not see the wizard until he stepped into the entrance. "Oh. My apologies. I did not realise that someone was already here." 

"There is room for two. Or do you seek solitude?" Gandalf shuffled to one end of the small bench.

Aragorn hesitated, then good manners got the better of him. After all, were it not for Gandalf's intervention, the next spring thaw would probably be revealing his desiccated corpse in a ditch. So he bowed before accepting a place at the old man's side. "Thank you."

Gandalf was smoking his long-stemmed pipe again, and for several minutes he simply sat in silence, blowing sweet, fragrant clouds of smoke into the air.

"Is that a Shire pipeweed?" Aragorn finally asked in an attempt at polite conversation.

Gandalf studied the pipe for a moment, as though only now noticing its presence. "It is. It is called Old Toby, a particular favourite of a friend of ours.”

“Ours?”

“You were but a lad when you met Bilbo Baggins."

"I remember. He was one of those you dragged off on your adventure." Aragorn smiled fondly. "He helped me with a dancing lesson."

Gandalf chuckled again. "As I remember it, you were an ungainly thing at that age. All elbows and big feet."

“We only met for a few minutes, and you noticed all that?” 

“You may have been concentrating upon your feet, but I was watching you, and a wizard sees much.”

"I always feel clumsy beside elves, although they are never rude enough comment." Aragorn inhaled deeply, finding that the sweet smoke blended well with the perfume of late blooming flowers. "I have missed them."

"Elrond tells me that you and he had a long talk yesterday."

"Yes. I have been foolish, it seems."

His comment was met with a shrug of broad, grey-clad shoulders. "It is considered the prerogative of youth, although I would argue that it is not confined to any particular age."

"Even those as old as wizards?" Aragorn asked with a twitch of his lips.

"Especially those as old as wizards. Although a certain degree of eccentricity is expected of us, and makes a good blind for foolishness." He winked. "I would appreciate it, if you kept that piece of information to yourself."

Aragorn laughed. "Your secret is safe with this fool."

There was another pause in the conversation as Aragorn studied a blackbird, tugging determinedly at a worm. This time it was Gandalf who broke the silence. "Once you are fully recovered, what will be your direction?"

"It was the search for answers to that question which brought me to the garden today. Adar has made it clear that I am welcome to visit whenever I wish, but I know that I cannot remain here." 

"I am certain that you would also be welcome in Lothlorien, if you wished to visit."

"I do not think that would be wise. Adar has not forbidden me to court Arwen, but the conditions he set are harsh. And perhaps rightly so. My people are dwindling and it is unlikely that we will ever be of sufficient numbers to challenge Sauron now. It is unlikely I shall be any kind of king. I would rather see Arwen living a long and happy life in the West."

“That is her decision to make. Not yours, and not her father's.” Gandalf fitted on an innocent expression that did not fool Aragorn for one moment. "Will you set your sights upon another lady, then? After all, as chieftain, you have some obligation to produce an heir."

"I cannot even consider marrying another. I shall probably die in anonymity, and the mantle of chieftain will settle upon a cousin." At twenty-five, Aragorn lacked some of the moderation that came with age and experience, so his tone was mournful, to say the least.

Gandalf coughed. "So you will walk the land, getting yourself attacked by orcs, until one day they finally succeed in killing you. That does not strike me as a particularly noble quest for the heir of Isildur."

"Then, what quest would you have me perform?" Aragorn asked, more than a little irked at what he perceived to be his elder's condescension.

"I would see a return of the High King and the re-uniting of the two kingdoms,” Gandalf replied, as though he were making the most obvious and reasonable of statements.

"A simple task, then. Would you like me to gather the twenty rings too? Just in the name of completeness, you understand." Aragorn's words were peevish, to say the least, and it seemed Gandalf was having none of it. 

"Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, Heir to the thrones of Arnor and Gondor, would it not be better to aim for the heavens than the mud? If you do not succeed, you will at least have the honour of knowing that you tried. This..." Gandalf waved at the arm Aragorn wore in a sling. "This is not living. If you try and you succeed, you will have your lady and see your people living in peace and prosperity once more. That seems to me a worthy way to live. Certainly better than a boy skulking alone in the hedgerows."

Aragorn drew himself up to his full height. "I have already pointed out that my people are too few to come against Sauron. Would you have me lead them to certain death? That would surely be the action of a boy."

"Some spirit at last! But must your people go alone? It was alliance that brought the Dark Lord to heel before."

"It was not a final defeat, thanks to my own ancestor. And Adar has already made it clear that even the elves are not numerous enough now, to be sure of victory, were they even willing to form alliance with men again. Those who have not already taken the road West are keenly aware that it was the actions of my ancestor, in not destroying the ring, that left us in this situation."

"You have lived among elves for too long, it seems. There are other peoples in Middle earth. I confess that you would find it a hard task to convince dwarves to join your quest. They erroneously consider themselves safe within their mountains. But there are men in large numbers to the south. The line of the Stewards is failing and the world of men looks for a strong leader who could re-unite the two kingdoms."

Aragorn waved a hand down the considerable length of his body, presently clad in fine velvet and silk. "And they would accept a ragged stranger as their captain and king?"

Gandalf raised bushy brows, repacking his pipe as he spoke. "I very much doubt it, even dressed like that. Trust must be won, and you need to understand them, too. They have been so long without a High King that they look only inward nowadays. You must learn their ways if you are to convince them to turn outward once more."

"And how do you suggest I do that? I have had little success, thus far.”

Once his pipe was lit, the old wizard leaned back comfortably. "You need not declare yourself openly. Elrond saw to it that you learned, not just how to wield arms, but how to lead men. Put those skills to use. Perhaps hiring out as a man at arms will bring insight, and also make you some friends and future allies. The kings of Rohan are proud, but not so proud that they will turn away another strong sword arm. As for Gondor, Ecthelion is a good man but his line has not the strength it once wielded. He stands alone against Mordor in a war of attrition that he cannot win. With your training and a little experience, I am certain you could soon climb the ranks to become a captain of men.” Gandalf paused before adding, “When you have learned all you can there, perhaps then you could even spare the time to revisit your own people."

Aragorn dropped his head. "I was rather quick to dismiss them, was I not?"

Gandalf's beard split with a grin. "Only a little. You will discover that life is not always as black or as white as it appears to the young. You have time enough to learn, that is if you do not decide to make any more foolhardy lone attacks upon orc packs."

Now Aragorn could not resist a little laughter. "I was not my intention to attack the last one. They attacked me. However, I do take your point. How do you suggest I avoid them in future?"

"Well, the trick is not so much how to avoid them, but rather how not to avoid meeting them alone. You have need of allies and, if you are willing, I have need of a good set of eyes in the court of Rohan."

And so it was that a young ranger, Thorongil by name, entered into the service of King Thengel of Rohan, and later to Ecthelion of Gondor.


End file.
